


Ten

by s0mmerspr0ssen



Series: Punishment [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Incest, M/M, Object Insertion, Riding Crop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-25
Updated: 2011-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0mmerspr0ssen/pseuds/s0mmerspr0ssen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Naturally, Sherlock doesn't take kindly to his brother's interference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten

How does one outsmart the British Government?

It hasn't been easy for Sherlock but Mycroft's misplaced sense of modesty when it comes to bathroom surveillance is what ensures his downfall. Sherlock has approximately ten minutes before Mycroft's henchmen will become suspicious and break into the bathroom of 221B, Baker Street.

Ten minutes are more than enough time for what Sherlock has planned for his brother.

Sherlock has been looking forward to this for weeks: revenge. Sweet, sweet revenge for what his brother has done to John.

He can still vividly recall John's far-too-late return from his weekly shopping spree at the supermarket: tears on his cheeks, dirt in his messy hair, violently shaking hands and friction burns on his wrists. Sherlock has never been very touchy-feely, has never cared much for other people's emotional or physical state unless it was for a case. But John has been different from the start and hugging John, comforting John, telling John that it was over and everything would be all right had almost come natural.

That day, Sherlock realized that he cared about John. Truly cared.

 _Ten minutes._

Mycroft looks calm, just like always. By now he has of course realized that Sherlock hasn't hurt himself in the bathroom, doesn't need any help. Sherlock has always been a good actor and his frantic _"Oh damn it! Mycroft? I need your help!"_ had just sounded desperate and annoyed enough to make his brother come to him without anyone else in tow. He has gone right into the room, the only room he doesn't control with cameras or otherwise.

The trap has snapped shut.

"What is the meaning of this?" Mycroft asks and eyes the locked bathroom door with distaste.

"This, dearest Mycroft, is payback."

Sherlock has prepared the bathroom, of course. It is sound-proof now to ensure that Mycroft's screams won't be heard by anyone but Sherlock. Oh, and how Sherock wants to hear his brother scream and beg and whine and _cry_.

Only Sherlock would notice the brief twitch in Mycroft's right leg, the nervous curling of his little fingers and the tiny glint of anxiety in his eyes. Mycroft is afraid.

The fake smile on Sherlock's face turns into a malicious grin.

 _Nine minutes._

Sherlock has always been pretty strong. One might not think so when looking at his lean frame but he is. Overwhelming his brother is the easiest thing in the world.

With swift, precise motions Sherlock fastens Mycroft's arms to one of the water tubes that stick out of the walls.

Lestrade's handcuffs. They'll cut nicely into his skin once Mycroft starts to struggle.

All the while, his brother is looking at him with slightly widened eyes. Otherwise, his face is a perfect mask of indifference but Sherlock knows Mycroft has already made the connection and is thinking through all the things that Sherlock might do to him, the terrible, terrible things he might have in mind.

"I don't understand your reasoning," Mycroft speaks up. "I did it for you. He _betrayed_ you."

Oh, his voice is already trembling ever so slightly. What a feast! Sherlock is so very hungry for Mycroft's fear and his brother is providing already.

"Maybe so," he acknowledges. "But John didn't know that. John doesn't see the world like we do. He didn't know that he was mine. And I like him in spite of his ignorance."

He takes a few seconds to simply stare into his brother's eyes, to enjoy the growing signs of panic.

"You've hurt him," he eventually hisses. "Now, I'll hurt you."

 _Eight minutes._

Sherlock picks up the scissors from the cabinet next to the sink. It is where he has stored all the instruments he will use on Mycroft.

Mycroft has fallen silent but his eyes speak volumes. He looks at the scissors with careful calculation, trying to guess what Sherlock has planned to do with him. It's nothing as barbaric as cutting off fingers or ears.

No, the scissors are foreplay.

Sherlock elegantly slides onto his knees and before Mycroft has time to process and react, Sherlock has already shut Mycroft's leg close with his own. His brother is pinned down on the floor and all he can do is watch.

He cuts off the tie first, just for the fun of it. Sherlock briefly contemplates gagging Mycroft with it but that would muffle those wonderful screams Sherlock has been imagining for the past weeks.

He continues with the sleeves of Mycroft's jacket, cuts them open and peels away the fabric. Sherlock carelessly throws the remains into the bathtub to deal with at a later time and gets started on the waistcoat.

Sherlock loves the way Mycroft's arms and legs are beginning to tremble. They're not actually shaking yet but it definitely speaks of anticipation and of nervousness. His brothers eyes are nervously following the scissors' every path and his breathing has sped up a bit.

Once the waistcoat is cut off it goes flying as well.

The white dress shirt is made of soft and thin fabric. Cutting it reminds Sherlock of cutting into paper because it's so easily done. The blades now lightly scratch over Mycroft's pale skin and leave thin red marks whenever Sherlock decides to use a tiny bit more pressure.

"I am your brother," Mycroft reminds him quietly.

"All the more fun," Sherlock replies and the cut shirt joins the waistcoat and jacket in the bathtub.

 _Seven minutes._

Sherlock obviously knows that he could simply pull down Mycroft's trousers after unbuckling his belt. But the scissors are fun, so much more fun.

He moves and shifts a bit. Instead of pressing together Mycroft's thighs, Sherlock now puts pressure on his calves and ankles. He doesn't really expect Mycroft to put up a fight but better safe than sorry.

Putting the scissors in the right position, Sherlock starts with the right leg.

Mycroft gets more and more agitated as the scissors come closer and closer to his crotch. The trembling in his legs becomes worse which results in more and deeper scratch marks on Mycroft's skin. The scissors pass the knee and Sherlock is now cutting the fabric around the inner part of the thigh, determinedly approaching the most sensitive area of a man's body.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says and it almost, almost sounds like a plea.

Sherlock doesn't stop cutting until the sharp ends of the scissors can briefly tease Mycroft's cock trough his underpants and Mycroft makes a very soft noise in the back of his throat. Sherlock can hardly wait for it to grow in a proper whimper.

The left leg is just as much fun. This time, Sherlock passes by Mycroft's crotch and cuts upwards until the trousers can fall off and Sherlock can throw them away.

Mycroft, trembling and only wearing his underpants is a strangely exciting sight. A single pearl of anxious sweat has formed on Mycroft's forehead. Sherlock raises a thumb to pick it up.

"Nervous?" he enquires and brushes the very same finger over Mycroft's lips in a mock caress.

Mycroft is way too grown-up to use the opportunity and bite into it.

He doesn't reply.

 _Six minutes._

Stretching his arm a bit, Sherlock reaches for the next instrument of his choice: his riding crop.

With a nasty smirk, Sherlock bows down a bit to blow a long, warm breath against the fabric of Mycroft's pants. Very soon, a bulging reaction is clearly visible. Mycroft must have already been aroused by the scissors play just as Sherlock has planned it.

Leaning back again, Sherlock raises his crop and brushes its leather tongue over Mycroft's clothed erection. Involuntarily, Mycroft's hips move upward to get more friction.

Sherlock chuckles and repeats the motion.

And again.

And again.

Over and over and over.

"Sherlock," Mycroft objects. His voice is definitely trembling now and far from calm. "Sherlock, this is absurd. You have no reason for revenge. You simply use it as an excuse to tortu _aaah_!"

Already tired of Mycroft's chitchat, Sherlock has started to use more pressure on Mycroft's cock. It is growing harder now and by the way Mycroft's hips jerk up every once in a while, Sherlock can tell that fabric and the small leather tongue don't provide nearly enough friction to be satisfying.

"Be quiet," Sherlock tells him, lazily outlining the bulging underpants with the end of the crop. "All I want to hear from you is begging, moaning and a tear-streaked apology."

"That won't happen," Mycroft tells him.

Sherlock quickly presses a flat palm against Mycroft's crotch and his brother moans softly.

"Oh really?" Sherlock taunts.

 _Five minutes._

He places the riding crop on the floor and pulls Mycroft's pants down in one swift motion. Sherlock leaves them hanging around the knees and once more reaches out to the small cabinet to pick up a blue piece of hard plastic.

A clothespin.

"You haven't been sticking to your diet," Sherlock rebukes his brother and opens the pin to pinch a bit of belly flap with it.

Mycroft cringes, then glares down at him furiously. Sherlock only raises his eyebrows in response.

He leans over his brother's chest and Mycroft tenses wonderfully when Sherlock's hand hovers over his right nipple which is already hard from the cold. Carefully observing Mycroft's face Sherlock places the clothespin around the teat and lets it snap shut.

Mycroft makes the most wonderful whining sound Sherlock has ever heard and his brother's eyelids flutter in a strange mix of pain and arousal.

"You like that," Sherlock says with a meaningful glance towards the never-faltering erection between Mycroft's legs.

He opens the clothespin and moves it to Mycroft's other nipple.

This time, it really is more of a whimper but Mycroft's lips form a wonderfully perfect _O_.

Everything's going exactly as Sherlock has planned it.

He releases the left nipple as well and moves downwards and Mycroft who is now realizing what Sherlock is planning on doing starts to trash a bit in his restraints. It must hurt his wrists, the way the metal bites into the skin, but Mycroft doesn't seem to pay much attention to that at the moment. The last piece of his calm mask has shattered and his eyes are wide and full of panic.

"No. _No._ Don't you da _aaaaah_!"

Oh what a marvellous sound. The first real _scream_.

Sherlock has placed the pin around the sensitive, hairy skin right above the base of Mycroft's erect cock. And it is erect, still, wonderfully so. Mycroft getting off on pain is a theory Sherlock has always wanted to base an experiment on.

Sherlock smirks in triumph and releases the pinched skin.

He is rewarded with another throaty whimper.

 _Four minutes._

Sherlock carelessly flings the clothespin to the side and once more reaches for the riding crop.

This would be another kind of pain entirely.

"This is supposed to be a punishment as well, of course," Sherlock says, deliberately using the words John has recited for him. "I can't have you simply _enjoying_ yourself now, can I?"

Mycroft's lips close tight, his eyes go unfocused for a few seconds and Sherlock knows that his brother has picked up on his choice of words.

Good.

Sherlock doesn't want him to forget just why he is receiving all this attention from Sherlock. This is about John. This is about _revenge_.

Carefully settling down on Mycroft's shins, Sherlock takes aim with the crop.

He doesn't want to touch Mycroft's cock at all. It's all about the sensitive areas around it and how to place the pain so close to the erection that the recipient - at some point - won't be able to properly distinguish between pain and pleasure anymore.

The first few blows are aimed at the soft flesh of Mycroft's left thigh. They leave red and angry welts on the skin that will soon start to burn and bruise.

Mycroft's _"Sherlock, stop this!"_ is immediately silenced by another round of blows for his right thigh.

To Sherlock's complete satisfaction, the welts start swelling quite quickly.

The closer Sherlock places the welts to Mycroft's cock the louder Mycroft's breathing gets until his brother can't stop himself anymore from whimpering and whining at every single blow. The occasional _"No"_ sounds half-hearted at best. His brother is lost in a haze of hurt and lust.

Sherlock positively gloats over his brother's pain. This is what he has had in mind for the past weeks. This is proper payback and humiliation.

Mycroft's cock starts to leak pre-cum.

 _Three minutes._

Once Sherlock is satisfied with the result of his whipping he reaches into his right trouser pocket to retrieve a bottle of lubricant.

"I hate to be a copycat," Sherlock explains almost cheerfully as he slicks up the thick end of his crop. "But sometimes you come up with the best ideas, my dearest brother. I freely admit that."

Sherlock acknowledges that Mycroft has been somewhat careful when penetrating John with his umbrella. That's why Sherock has decided to be _somewhat_ careful when penetrating Mycroft with his crop.

Preparing Mycroft's entrance however simply isn't an option. Sherlock has successfully avoided directly touching his brother's cock so far. Touching him _there_ \- no, definitely not.

The end of the riding crop is thicker than the end of Mycroft's umbrella - Sherlock knows that. But that's what revenge is for after all: taking it to the next level.

Sherlock realizes that he has to let go off Mycroft's legs in order to get access to his brother's arse. A calculating glance at his brother's flushed face and sweaty chest supports Sherlock's assumption that by now Mycroft would be far too gone to object much or put up a fight.

All that Mycroft should care about at the moment is how to achieve an orgasm.

When Sherlock removes his weight from Mycroft's shins his brother _almost_ spreads his legs voluntarily. Smirking in triumph, Sherlock finally removes his brother's underpants and forcefully pushes his legs upwards and back.

Mycroft's desperate response is a whimper that sounds like he is pretty close to tearing up.

Sherlock determinately places the slick crop in between his brother's buttocks and pushes against the muscle.

Mycroft finally starts to beg.

 _Two minutes._

"Sherlock... oh... please, I... oh..."

It is music to Sherlock's ears and almost as wonderful as a violin concerto by Beethoven or Paganini. Never in his life has he heard his brother beg like this. Not once.

The riding crop is pushed inside further and no amount of lubricant could make this an entirely pleasant sensation. Mycroft's hips buckle and jerk and in between his pleas, he whimpers quietly. Sherlock can only imagine the pain the never-stopping crop causes his brother and is actually a bit surprised that his brother isn't crying yet.

But then, making a Holmes cry has never been an easy challenge.

Sherlock doesn't stop until the tip of the crop meets constant resistance and a pretty little scream tells him that his angle evaluation has been done correctly and that Sherlock has found his brother's prostate.

For a few seconds, Sherlock simply enjoys the view. Mycroft's muscles clench tightly around the crop and for one fleeting moment Sherlock wonders what it would feel like to be enclosed like this by his brother's arse.

With a blink of his eyes, the thought is gone.

"You're liking this part," Sherlock establishes with glee and Mycroft whimpers in response. "I hope you'll enjoy the next part as well."

Smirking, Sherlock slightly rotates the crop and is rewarded with a loud, throaty moan. Mycroft is more fun than any of Sherlock's experiments ever were.

"It's the best part of my plan, Mycroft," he tells him excitedly. "Because now, we'll talk."

 _One minute._

Mycroft's eyes have been unfocused for a long time. Now, he is clearly making an effort to look at Sherlock.

"Wha-?" is all he manages.

"Talk, Mycroft. An activity you're quite fond of."

Mycroft shakes his head a bit, no doubt trying to get rid of the fog that lust and pain have produced in his mind. His eyes become a little more clear but with a throbbing cock in between your legs, Sherlock reckons there isn't much you could do to clear your mind but masturbate.

"I'll even give you some rules," Sherlock continues when he is sure that his brother is lucid enough to listen. "When I ask you a question you will give an honest answer. If I think you are lying-"

Sherlock once more shifts the riding crop and Mycroft screams so loud Sherlock really hopes his sound insulation is faultless. It would be a pity to be disturbed now, at the very peak.

"I think you understand, do you? _Confirm._ "

To Sherlock's utter satisfaction, Mycroft gives him a rather frantic nod.

"Good. Now - are you jealous of John? Do you wish I'd care as much about you as I do about him?"

Mycroft stares at him.

"N-no," he whispers.

Sherlock didn't even know his brother's voice could sound like that. So _vulnerable_.

"Don't lie to me," Sherlock warns him and moves the riding crop in an evil twist.

"Sher... I am... not... not lying," he whimpers. Oh, he's close now - close to tears and close to his orgasm.

"All right," Sherlock says and smirks. "Then I don't think you have any excuse for what have you done to him, dearest brother. Do you?"

Mycroft is panting heavily, jerking his hips in search of friction. Sherlock is careful not give him any.

"N-no excuse," Mycroft finally whimpers. He's nearly there.

"Exactly," Sherlock agrees and with his free hand he reaches out to pat his brother's hair as if he is praising a dog.

Then suddenly, his grip becomes forceful, painful as he yanks at the thinning hair and Mycroft lets out a quiet _sob_.

"Apologise, Mycroft," Sherlock commands and moves the crop ever so slightly inside of him. "Apologise for what you have done. Beg me for forgiveness."

The first tear rolls freely down Mycroft's cheek. Sherlock needs all of his self-restraint not to lick it off his face, to taste the salty tinge.

"I-," he sobs. "I-"

Another yank and Mycroft finally starts to cry in all honesty.

"Plea-please," he manages trough snot and tears. "Fo-forgive me, She-she-sherlock."

In triumph, Sherlock pulls out the riding crop ever so slightly before pushing it in again. He repeats the process twice, thrice stimulating Mycroft's prostrate with full force. At the same time Sherlock releases Mycroft's hair, his brother finds his very own release.

He comes hard, all over his belly, his chest and the bathroom tiles.

Sherlock slowly releases his brother's legs and stands up, leaving the riding crop inside of his brother as he moves away and looks at his watch to check his timing.

He smiles.

 _Zero minutes._

Mycroft is still crying, semen leaking from his softening cock when the bathroom door is broken down by one of his angry bodyguards.

______  
 _fin._


End file.
